“See ya soon!” he says, as if this is jolly news indeed. As if we weren’t supposed to be Britain’s next royal couple snogging at black-tie galas, and now our best hope is being two cornfield-bred pals catching up over coffee.
I should’ve known better. I’m too old to believe in fairy tales, let alone fairy tales that feature me as the heroine. How could I have suspended my judgment for the sake of such a nonsensical story? Itwas all just one giant lapse in judgment, a childish tactic to distract me from having to actually grow up and face the razor-blade reality that I’m single and so alone, with absolutely no promising prospects on the horizon.
“Watch it,” a woman on the bus grumbles as I only half accidentally elbow her out of my way, to get off this dream-crushing vessel before the closing doors trap me in. “Who do you think you are?”
No clue,I think to myself as I shoot her my dirtiest scowl and step out onto the sidewalk strewn with lifeless cigarette butts and broken glass that appropriately fit my current emotional state.But evidently not a future duchess.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Something in me hardens after the encounter with Alexander.Rory, I mean. My brain is taking a little while to adjust to the ugly truth, though my heart has caught on all too quickly.
As quickly as the world transformed into a mystical sphere of wonder when I first spied Alexander, it now devolves back. All the round and reflective edges are sharp and serrated again. The bold, splatter-paint colors of yesterday are muted by a thick coat of grays and blues, everything washed out through the grainy filter of the heartbroken.
Perhaps it sounds a bit dramatic to declare myself heartbroken by a man whose real name I didn’t know until this morning, but it doesn’tfeeldramatic. And so here we are, back in that inconsolable emotional state where I just want to curl up on the couch and binge-watch rom-coms for as long as it takes to physically transport myself into the movie, away from this unscripted mess of a life.
Slouching at my desk in Turpi’s office, I do my best to avoid conversation with anyone and everyone, keeping my headset on so it looks like I’m on calls even when I’m not.
I would go back to Marlow House to work, or rather, jiggle my mouse while placing a bulk order of cookie dough from Deliveroo, but I have my quarterly performance review this afternoon, so I have to stick it out.
The meeting is one on one and takes place in Oliver’s office, a glass-walled cube that Turpi has allocated him while the case is ongoing. Since he’s only working there temporarily, he hasn’t decorated the office at all, though he’s still brought along a few tacky work trophies displayed proudly, as if they were Super Bowl laurels he couldn’t bear to be separated from.
Leo & Sons Partner 2022. Leo & Sons Partner 2021.And so on …
I sit down in an empty chair across from him, rolling my shoulders back and trying to give off as much confident-but-not-cocky energy as I can, to demonstrate that I’m ready to be made partner.
The first fifteen minutes of our meeting are an unhelpful combination of small talk about how I’m finding London, plus the typical, fortune-cookie platitudes that managers use when they’re being lazy or deliberately ambiguous: “You’ve hit the ground running since this case started.” “You’re a valued member of the team.” “Keep putting in the work, and good things are in store for you.”
There would have been a time when I would’ve lapped up this sort of praise, but I know better now. I know that words mean nothing without action to back them up. And maybe it’s because I’m so bummed out by this morning’s events, or just because I’ve been inthe business world for too long to trust the system with my career, but I tackle head-on the question that I used to dance around.
“So,” I say, clenching my jaw in the masculine posture I’ve learned over the years, “am I going to make partner?” I’m determined to get answers about where my career at Leo & Sons is going—or not going.
Oliver’s unemotive face doesn’t change, but he tugs uncomfortably on his pinstripe blazer, and I get the feeling he’s not used to such a direct question, or at least not from a woman. “You’re doing brilliantly, like I said,” he declares. “Can’t argue with your performance. I’ll be doing what I can for you come December.”
It’s more fluff, and I’m not having it. As partner, my boss has the clout to get me promoted if he pushes for it. The insinuation that it’s not within his power is as infuriating as it is insulting. “What can I do to improve my chances?” I ask.
It’s October now, and promotions will be announced early December, but the decisions will be made in the next couple weeks. It’s crunch time.
“Well now,” he says, fumbling around for the words, as if it wasn’t his job to have thought about this beforehand and to deliver helpful feedback in this meeting.
“Yes?” I press, trying to disguise my impatience as eagerness. Every boss I’ve ever had (all of them male) has resisted giving me constructive criticism, as if afraid I’m going to burst into tears and file a complaint to HR if he dares to injure my delicate feelings. My bosses have never, however, seemed to hesitate passing along honest feedback to other men, one of the reasons men continue climbing up into the C-suite while the women peter out in middle management.
“I reckon you could focus on your client relationship skills a bit more,” Oliver stammers. “At the partner level, that’s most of the job.”
“Does Harold not like me?” I ask, because this seems to be the implication.
“No, he quite likes you, he does. Think he just wishes he saw you around a bit more—join us for drinks, that kind of thing. The out-of-office activities become more important the higher you climb.”
I sit there, taking the words head-on. More than being upset with Oliver, I’m upset with myself. I’d been thinking that as long as my boss and the Leo & Sons higher-ups saw I was a top performer, that would be enough. But I’ve overlooked Harold’s importance in the equation. As CEO of the firm we’re hired to serve, he arguably holds even more weight than anyone at Leo & Sons. I can’t get there without him.
It’s a foolish oversight and one whose implications make me queasy. If cozying up to Harold is my ticket to the top, I’m not sure what to do.
I consider bringing up the inappropriate comments Harold makes and how he never seems to take what I say seriously. How he looks at me like a piece of meat, not a professional. But Harold hasn’t done anything conspicuous enough to warrant a formal complaint, and the last thing I want is to have my name attached to a sexual harassment scandal.
“Thanks for the feedback,” I say, staying composed so Oliver will be inclined to share more with me in the future. “Really appreciate it.”
“I’m saying this as your pal as much as your boss,” he goes on. “Just know your strengths with Harold, and don’t be afraid to usethem.” Breaking from his stoical expression, he gives the smallest of winks, like we’re in on a private joke. Like my promotion is just a game that I have to play the right way to get. Like he’s giving me the green light to flirt with Harold to boost my client service score.
The insinuation makes my skin crawl. But before I have time to figure out how to reply, Oliver is dashing out the door to another meeting.
